Although I sensed something was missing, I enjoyed going to school at the orphanage, and was doing well. I was in grade five and was equal dux of the class. I did well in all subjects, picked things up quickly, and got on with the other girls in class and the teachers. I enjoyed the rivalry between myself and another girl, also called Marijke, for gaining the highest marks in almost all subjects. We usually ended up getting equal top marks, or coming in first and second.
Except for history. I loathed history with a passion. Actually, not the lessons, as I enjoyed learning about the past. It was the emphasis on specific dates and times when major world or local events had occurred. I couldn’t see any sense in knowing these dates, they were not important to me. Who cared if it was the 7th of May of a certain year, or the 17th? Well, the teacher did. Come test time, my details of events were always spot on. But when it came to the questions on dates, I did not do well, bringing my marks down dramatically.
I recall receiving one test paper back, where the teacher had written in big red letters: “When are you going to learn your dates, Marijke?” I never did, but I still got reasonable marks for this subject. The other Marijke loved history and always beat me in this subject. I excelled at maths and Dutch, and usually pipped her on these subjects. So all in all, we had a healthy rivalry, which kept us both working hard.
It was also at this time I noticed my body starting to change, although I was extremely naïve in this area. As Mama had been sick for so long we had never had a mother to daughter chat about these things. I knew nothing about sex, or the bodily functions relating to this.
My breasts were developing, and little tufts of hair appeared in places they hadn’t grown before. I did accept these changes without question, as my older sisters had developed in front of my eyes, so obviously it was part of growing up.
We used to have religious instructions every day at school. Right from when we started kindergarten, this was an important part of the curriculum in all Catholic schools.
All my teachers had always been nuns. Up to that stage of life, I believed that teachers were all nuns, or brothers in the boys’ schools.
One day, our teacher introduced the topic for the day as ‘personal hygiene’. I thought it a funny topic for religious instructions.
“Now, girls, most of you, or at least some of you, will have noticed that your bodies are changing. This is a special gift from God. Your bodies will change over the next few years, until you become fully grown young women. God has been good to us, and has made sure that when you grow up, your bodies will be able to have children. To do that, your bodies need to develop the way God has planned.”
Her voice was very serious, and she looked around the classroom as she spoke, from one to the other. You could have heard a pin drop. As all the other students were orphans, I assumed they were in the same situation as me. They’d never been told about these things.
“There’s one thing I really MUST impress upon you. You will be young ladies soon, no longer children. And with that comes the need for hygiene and self respect. You must ensure you always keep those parts of your bodies clean and covered. But you must also make sure that, as God’s children, and as future mothers of his children, your body stays pure. You must not sin, girls. You must not let good feelings override your chastity.” She paused after this statement, again looking around the class slowly and seriously.
“One of the first things you have to remember as you develop into women, you do NOT touch those sacred parts. You keep them clean, make sure they are washed, but NEVER touch them.”
What is she talking about? What parts of my body are sacred? And how can I wash these parts, and not touch them?
“Okay, girls, let us get on with our regular lesson now,” she said.
I guess that was the end of my lesson on the facts of life and the birds and bees. I didn’t have a clue, I wasn’t going to ask a nun to explain and show my confusion. I hated not understanding, and didn’t want to show the rest of the class how dumb I was, as that might damage my reputation as a top student.
But, this worried me for years to come. I certainly did not have a close enough relationship with my new Mama to ask her. Besides, she was very prim and proper, and I didn’t think she knew anything about such things. It must be something God had told the nuns, as His special messengers, to pass on to us. I didn’t even discuss this with my older sisters.
Whenever I had my shower, I would wash myself, and look at my developing body with confusion. Now which part is sacred? I think it must be my breasts, they are the only things I can see are really changing, apart from the hairy bits. But how can I wash them, but at the same time not touch them? And why not?
Chapter 9
Before Mama went into hospital the last time, she’d bought some really nice material and patterns. She was a good seamstress, and had started to make all the girls a brand new dress. This was very exciting to me, because mostly I received hand-me-downs. Clothes went from Willie to Ann, and then from Ann to me. By then they would be well and truly worn, but still in perfect condition. Papa and Mama always made sure we learned from a very young age, that no matter how poor we were, or how little we had, we always looked after everything. Never a hem to hang out, or a button missing. Any seams which looked like bursting, were reinforced, and socks darned on a weekly basis.
For each of us to get new dresses had been an exciting prospect. But of course, once Mama had gone into hospital, this project had been put on hold.
One day, Aunty Jos, now our new Mama, asked me to come into Papa’s little sewing room, off the lounge-room. There, spread out on the big sewing table, lay the material and the pattern for my new dress.
“Marijke, I know Mama was going to make you this lovely dress. I’m going to do it for you now, and you can wear it to our wedding. I’ll make all the girls’ dresses that your Mama couldn’t do because she was sick. Then we’ll all go shopping for new shoes. I need to take your measurements, because I have noticed that you have shot up quite a lot, and you have started to fill out.”
I looked at the beautiful pale blue material, and the white binding which would offset the seams. The pattern was one Mama and I had chosen together, and I thought it was the most beautiful dress pattern I had ever seen.
“Thank you, Mama, that will be really nice. Can I help you with the sewing, because I’m pretty good at it. And then you won’t have so much to do.”
“Why, thank you, that’ll be very nice. I’ll let you know when I get to those parts you can do, like sewing the buttons on, and hemming. Is that okay?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Then I can use my sewing box, and my reels of cotton.”
This was the first time I had called her Mama without thinking about it. It wasn’t until later that day I realised that Aunty Jos had become the Mama of our home. Not my Mama, but a Mama. It was sort of acceptable to me now, and although my memories of Mama were with me daily, they became less painful as time passed. I still had some very sad moments, but they were not as painful as they had been in the past.
The preparations for the wedding were in full swing. Apparently there was some consternation about this union within various family circles, as it was so soon after Mama’s death. But I did not hear any of this, and got caught up in the excitement of the new clothes and shoes. The wedding itself did not excite me too much, but by now I had accepted that this was going to happen.
One evening, when we were playing a game of cards, Mama and Papa were giggling about something, and then Papa started tickling Mama. This had always been one of Papa’s favourite pasttimes, tickling us. I looked at them, and suddenly felt angry. How could he do this? He used to tickle my Mama, and she used to laugh so loud. She had been very ticklish, as were all of us kids. And obviously